


Out of the Woods

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Arguing, Bruises, Caretaking, Crying, F/F, Fights, Forests, Hurt Rowena MacLeod, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Tears, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: An explosive argument leads to you running away and puts Rowena in danger.
Relationships: Rowena MacLeod/You
Kudos: 33





	1. Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my friend hotdiggitydammit for helping me with the summary!

You and Rowena were screaming at each other, which wasn't nearly as common as people tended to think. You didn't care that you were in the middle of nowhere. You didn't care that Sam and Dean were looking at you, that they were focused on nothing but the two of you screaming your lungs out in each other's face like rabid beasts.

Let them watch.

After all, they were the ones who'd gotten you into this mess.

"I didn't wanna come here in the first place!" you yelled, wildly flailing your arms around to emphasize each word for there was nothing you could possibly say, could possibly do, to encompass just how much you didn't want to be here.

"Nobody held a gun to your bloody head!" Rowena argued.

Right. Because it was that easy. Because saying no was a walk in the fucking park.

"Was I supposed to let you come alone? With-with those two idiots—" you pointed at Sam and Dean, who both scowled, but you didn't care "—who've endangered your life more than once? One of whom is fated to _kill_ you?"

"I don't need a nanny!" she snapped as she always did when you were protective. Because why acknowledge she wasn't as all-powerful as she thought when she could keep playing tough girl? "I've survived well enough on my own for over three centuries!"

"This is different!"

Back then she wasn't acquainted with hunters who'd managed to piss off God himself. She hadn't been fated to be killed by one of said hunters, who, for some reason you couldn't comprehend, happened to be her best friend. Hadn't suffered at the Devil's hand — more than once — and had the scars forever etched into her soul.

Back then she didn't have anyone who cared about her.

She didn't have you.

To your surprise, Rowena echoed it exactly. "Of course it's different! I didn't have you to nag at me every time I got a bloody paper cut!"

You stared. Swallowed a lump that had formed in your throat. Did she really just say that? Everything you'd done for her — all the love you'd showered her with, the tears you'd wiped away — and she had the audacity to trivialize it. To make you out to be a nagging wife.

"Wow." Because what else was there to say? She'd made her feelings clear, and quite loud. Louder than any _fuck you_ she could have shouted. "You suck, you know that? You're a shitty girlfriend. I don't know why I even bother."

Two could play this game. You'd learned that from the very best.

Hurt flickered over Rowena's face; she instantly smoothed it out, covered it up with indifference you'd gotten to know well. "You're not exactly a walk in the park, either."

"I've done everything for you, and it's not enough. Nothing is ever enough with you."

Not the sleepless nights. Not the hugs and words of love. Not the promises that it was okay, that she was okay, that she was safe from the monster who'd hurt her — promises you'd kept to the very last word.

Not _you._

You were never — would never be — enough.

"Maybe you're just doing a shoddy job," she said in that nonchalant tone she used to hurt people, to show them she didn't care.

It stung like a slap to the face. "Fuck you, Rowena!"

"Right back at you, dear."

You screamed. Stomped your foot like a child. Your nails bit into your skin as your fists tightened. Turning on your heel, you started walking in the opposite direction.

"Where in hell are you going?"

"I can't be around you right now." You looked to Sam and Dean, to their faces that told you they would rather be anywhere but here. You could relate. "I can't be around any of you."

If you were to stay for another moment, you would do something you would regret. Your magic was already boiling, fingertips sparking, eyes flashing purple. You needed to breathe. Needed to calm down. Needed to, for the first time in five long, long years, be away from your girlfriend.

"You can't just walk away!" Rowena said. "We aren't finished!"

A bitter chuckle escaped your mouth. "Why? Because that's your thing?" You meant for it to hurt, to make her heart ache as much as yours did. To pay back what you were owed for she was the last person you expected this kind of treatment from. "Don't worry, I'm not stealing. Just borrowing a page out of your book."

If she had a reaction to your words, you didn't see it. You just kept walking. One foot in front of the other, eyes straight ahead. You didn't look back until you were sure you were far enough away that the only thing to return your glance were trees.

Making sure you were alone — truly, blissfully alone — you wept. You sobbed and cried like an inconsolable child as your heart pulsed and pounded in your chest. A hammer beating against your ribcage, crushing it, tearing it apart.

You didn't want to be here. Didn't want to join the Winchesters on yet another case no different than the others before them — the ones they'd begged Rowena to help with as shamelessly as this one. The softie she'd become, she said yes, as she did every time they called. What Sam Winchester asked for, Sam Winchester got. Regardless of your objections.

You knew Rowena had changed. Understood her need to redeem herself for her past misdeeds, to make up for every life she'd taken and ruined. Helping the Winchesters gave her a sense of peace, of happiness. Of hope that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't irreparable, that the evil she'd inflicted could be negated with good.

The fact that she was putting herself in harm's way didn't seem to dissuade her.

So you went with her. If you couldn't talk her out of it, at the very least you could go with her to keep an eye on her, to make sure she was okay. Rowena welcomed your company, and had made it clear to the Winchesters the two of you were a package deal. Not that they minded. After all, two helpful witches were better than one.

Today was no different than any other day. A seemingly difficult case. Murdered women thrown out like trash, their naked bodies littered with bruises and welts, reminders of the brutality they'd succumbed to. No suspects. No leads. Nothing but a pentagram cut deep into each victim's chest.

A witch perpetrator, it was suspected. Or one that had been hunting witches — or women they'd suspected of being so — branding them loud and clear for the entire world to know their sin like a twisted scarlet letter.

Your bet was on the latter.

It only made you hope for the bastard to be found sooner.

At the same time, it made your nerves go off like fireworks. If there was an insane hunter out there, it wasn't safe for you and Rowena to work this case. What if one of you were to be taken? What if one of you were to be brutalized in the worst ways possible and thrown away like trash?

You both bore resurrection sachets, but still.

You'd already been through the aftermath of a similar ordeal with Rowena once. It would destroy you (and, despite how nonchalant she acted, demolish her) to go through it again.

Rowena, ever the contrarian, disagreed. Or rather, she didn't care. She wanted to help. Wanted to make the bastard who'd been doing this pay for ever putting his hands in a witch. You would be okay, she assured you. She wouldn't let any harm come your way. If he were to even look at you wrong, she would make sure the ordeal that waited for him in Hell would be Heaven compared to what she would put him through.

As if that was the point. As if that made your worries — for her, for her wellbeing — subside for even a sliver.

But, as always, Rowena was stubborn, and were you, and soon you were screaming in each other's face.

And now here you were, crying your eyes out in the middle of an unknown forest, your back against a tree, nothing but a sea of trees and overgrown weeds around you.

 _Gods._ That woman would be the death of you. As impossible as she was, as much as her words hurt, you couldn't make yourself hate her. You never could; not back when she was a heartless bitch, when she cared about nothing but herself, and certainly not now, four years into the relationship you never thought would happen.

Rowena had changed. She truly had. But, gods, sometimes it was a struggle to handle her. She was difficult to love. Impossible, almost, but you managed it. Sometimes, like now, you wished you hadn't. Because hating her would be easier. It would make her words sting less. Would make her disappointment in you, her lack of appreciation for all you've done for her, hurt less.

Being in love was a bitch.

Being in love with Rowena was one of massive proportions.

That was what you got for falling in love with someone who used to brag about being unable to feel anything remotely close to affection.

That woman was long gone, but remnants of her still lived on. A perfect weapon Rowena happily utilized, aimed it straight at the heart for maximum damage.

If you weren't enough, who would be? What was it that she wanted you to do? You'd given her your all, and more, so much more. Had pushed yourself to your limits for her sake. Mistakes were made along the way, and learned from. You'd always strived to do better, be better; a better carer, a better girlfriend.

Clearly not the best. Lacking. Not enough. Never enough.

Knees trembling, you allowed yourself to slide to your knees. You buried your face in your hands, muffled the sobs that kept tearing from your throat. Willed them to silence.

You couldn't understand Rowena like Sam. Couldn't make her PTSD go away. Couldn't make her better, happier. There was nothing of value you could give her. A few soft words, kisses, and hugs could only do so much.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were doing a shoddy job.

But still, you tried. You did your best. Gave your all; blood, sweat, and tears. You weren't perfect, nobody was, but if that was what Rowena had an issue with, well, it was her problem.

You could only give her so much.

Was it too much to ask for the smallest shred of gratitude in return?


	2. Gone Girl

It was dark by the time you arrived at the cheap hotel (because of course it was cheap. The Winchesters' favorite flavor) Sam and Dean had booked adjoined rooms in for the four of you. The door creaked as you opened it, the knob wobbly in your hand; you had to lock it in order for the door to stay closed. The air was stale, reeking of dampness and cigarettes countless guests before you had to have smoked inside. The wallpapers, a sickly, mustard yellow, were ripped and peeling in places.

You hated this place. It only made you angrier at the Winchesters. At Rowena, for dragging you into this. At yourself, for letting her do it.

"You guys made up?" Dean asked. He and Sam were on the couch, a tiny thing that barely contained the two of them, looking over, for what must have been the hundredth time, crime scene photos on their laptop. Desperately looking for clues, for the smallest details they might have missed.

You gave a bitter chuckle. "As if." Not that it was any of their business, but it didn't hurt to indulge them. After all, you'd fought right in front of their eyes.

It was — sort of — their fault, but still.

"Got into another fight?"

Why did he care? If you and Rowena's relationship was so important to him, he and his brother wouldn't call all the time begging for help.

Some hunters they were.

"Why, she send me shit? I had my phone turned off," you said. It wasn't like Rowena to send nasty messages (she preferred to fight face to face), but it wasn't every day the two of you screeched in each other's face like banshees. Which was exactly why you'd turned off your phone.

That, and you didn't want the brothers spamming you with messages to come back and inquiries if you were okay, like they tended to do when ignored.

Dean looked back at you. Narrowed his eyes in question. Sam followed suit, expression questioning, hopeful.

A lump popped in your throat. Your heart jumped, startled. Those were not the faces of men curious about their friends' (well, sort of friends, in your case, at least) relationship.

"You didn't get here together?" Sam asked. Was that concern in his voice? Fear?

You almost — almost — didn't want to respond. "Why would we? I meant it when I said I couldn't be around her. I needed some me time."

The brothers exchanged one of those glances that spoke more than a thousand words.

Lips trembling, you uttered, "Isn't she here?" In the other room. Flipping through one of her enormous spellbooks. Making hex bags she never used. Sulking like she usually did after a fight.

"She… well…" Sam trailed off, eyes avoiding yours that tried to make contact.

"What?" you demanded. Ordered. Not in the mood for stalling.

He cleared his throat. "She went after you."

"Wha-she what?" It came out as a yelp; a squeaky, pathetic little yelp that would be embarrassing any other time.

But not today. Not now.

Sam was surely mistaken. Rowena hadn't gone after you. She couldn't have. You would have seen her. Heard her. Sensed her the way you always did when she was near, her magic radiating with the force of a thousand suns, rubbing off of yours, melting into it. You wouldn't — _couldn't —_ have missed her.

"She said it was dangerous to be alone in those woods with the maniac we're hunting around," Dean said.

She didn't. She absolutely did not. She wasn't that stupid.

Only, she was. Because, no matter how mad she was, how impossibly livid, she would never let you get hurt.

As much as it pained her to admit it, as hard as she'd sworn against it, Rowena MacLeod was a lovesick fool.

"And you — what? You just let her go?" you spat, filth and venom rolling off your tongue.

"She said she'd be fine," Dean said defensively.

Of course she did. Rowena always said she was fine. Like when she woke up covered in sweat, or wept for no apparent reason, or stiffened at random, eyes blurry with tears. She didn't have PTSD. She was fine. Everything was fine.

She never quite came to terms with it, and you doubted she ever would. It was easier to pretend everything was okay, to put on a smile and play a happy role. It was easier to shove issues aside and refuse to acknowledge them. Doing otherwise would be admitting defeat. It would mean she wasn't in control. That her life, her body, her mind and soul, weren't under her command.

The mere thought of that scared the hell out of her — even more so than the nightmares of Lucifer.

"Does it look like she's fine?" you snapped, and instantly flared with guilt. It wasn't Dean's fault Rowena had gone off on her own. If he and Sam were to have attempted to stop her, chances were, they wouldn't have been successful. Your girl was stubborn. Headstrong. Independent. What she wanted, she did. What she needed, she took.

If anyone should be shouldering the blame, it was you. You with your stupid tantrums. With your whining and complaints, incessant, annoying, ridiculous. With your desires to protect her, which did nothing but put her into even more danger.

If something bad had happened to Rowena, it would be your fault.

"I'm sure she's fine," Sam said before Dean could utter a retort — sassy, no doubt. "Why don't you call her?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Okay," you said with a nod, instantly grabbing for your phone and tapping in the number you knew by heart. You would call her, and she would pick up, and the two of you would scream at each other again, and everything would be as it should.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. Four, five, six, and so on. Each ring made your heart jump higher, made it pound harder against your chest. A hammer devastating you from the inside, one slam at the time.

You hung up the call and called again. And again. And again. Nothing awaited you on the other line — nothing but the beeps as the seconds went on, long as hours, grim as the night that had befallen this small town.

"She's not picking up!" You couldn't keep the hysteria out of your voice. "She's not-I don't-I can't—"

"Maybe she's still mad at you," Dean offered. He didn't really believe it, it was clear as day, but he wanted to help. He wanted you to calm down. "You know what she's like. The woman holds a mean grudge."

"Right," Sam agreed. "Why don't-why don't I call her?"

"Well, go on, then!" you snapped.

Maybe the elder Winchester was right. Maybe she was still mad. Maybe she didn't want to talk to you out of principle, wanted to punish you for running off like a headless chicken. She did have a tendency to hold a grudge.

As did you. But, as angry as you were, you couldn't help the worry that crawled into your heart, nested in it, roiled and coiled like a parasite.

Silence settled as Sam pressed his phone to his ear. Seconds passed, horribly long. He swallowed a lump in his throat. His jaw tensed. Teeth grit tight.

"Nothing."

That one word — so simple, so lonely — was enough to throw you into hysterics. Your heart race. Hands trembled. Tears spilled down, drenched your face like a waterfall. For the second time today, you started sobbing so hard your throat hurt.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Sam said, laying a hand on your shoulder.

You shook it off. This was his fault. His and Dean's. If they hadn't begged for her help, none of this would have happened. You and Rowena would have been chilling at home, wrapped in a blanket, watching a shitty movie that she would trash and you would defend just to tease her. She would complain about being cold, and you would snuggle closer and wrap your arms around her — purposely tight so she would complain, and you would pretend you didn't know what she was talking about, and she would pout, and you would call her adorable, and she would deny it, and you would kiss, and the movie would be forgotten as the two of you got lost in each other.

But no — the Winchesters couldn't resist a chance to drag her into yet another of their messes. And then you walked away like a spoiled brat, and she went after you.

And now she was gone.

Because of them. Because of _you._

"We can track her phone," Sam offered.

"Yeah, track her phone," Dean said in agreement, offering an encouraging smile.

You didn't return it.

Sam grabbed his tablet and started typing. "Let's see," he mused, eyes glued to the screen. A moment passed, then, "Got it!"

You wiped at your eyes with your sleeve. "Where is she?"

"In the forest." He squinted. Frowned. "Deep in the forest."

"Maybe she got lost," Dean said.

Right. It was a possibility. Rowena was a proud creature. If she got lost, the chances were, she wanted to find the way out on her own. Calling for help would be beneath her.

Maybe that was why she wasn't picking up the phone. She didn't want to admit that she was lost.

"Let's go," Sam said.

The brothers quickly grabbed their necessities — phones, the tablet, weapons. Dean offered you a gun.

You raised an eyebrow.

"For protection."

You willed your eyes to spark purple, just like Rowena had taught you. A display of power. A warning. A threat. "I've got my own."

"Suit yourself." He shoved it into his jacket pocket.

The forest was creepy at night. There were no chirping birds, no crickets, not even a rustle of movement — nothing but silence that gnawed at you, chilled your bones like a winter's morning. Sam led the way, following the red dot on his screen. Rowena's phone. Rowena. Hopefully waiting, ready to bitch you out the moment she laid eyes on you.

It would be worth it. Anything would be worth it, so long as you found her.

"We're almost there," Sam said.

Good. You were already preparing a lecture. You'd said you wanted to be alone, which was not an invitation for her to follow after you. Instead of giving you space, she'd gotten lost. Like a brat. That was sure to push her buttons, and she would say something equally rude, and you would fight all the way to the hotel, and then you would make up by morning, and tomorrow it would be as if nothing had ever happened.

That was the thing with you and Rowena — your arguments didn't last long. Not even rare big ones like this. You loved each other too much to stay mad for long.

"We're here," Sam announced, shaking you from your thoughts.

You frowned. Shined your flashlight as you looked around.

No Rowena. Nothing but overgrown grass and sickly trees.

Willing your trembling lips to steady, you said, "What do you mean, we're here?"

"The app says we are."

"The app is wrong!"

"It's usually accurate."

"Clearly not this time!" You spread your arms wide, gesturing to nothingness. "You see Rowena anywhere?"

"Maybe she's hiding."

"In plain sight? She's tiny, not invisible!"

"She could be using magic."

"I don't feel any magic."

"Maybe—"

"Guys!" Dean shouted, breaking up the exchange. "Check this out." He was hunched over a patch of grass by one of the trees, shining his flashlight directly into it.

You and Sam rushed to his side. Looked down. Blood froze in your veins at the discovery.

A phone laid amidst the yellowish blades of grass, speckled with dirt and grime. Alone. Abandoned. The screen shattered like a mirror.

Rowena's phone.

A reddish-brown stain stood out amidst the dirt. Blood, dry but still vivid, still bright under the light.

You gasped. Stumbled backwards, knees wobbly, weak. A helpless, banshee-like wail tore from your throat, and you fell to your knees.

And you cried and cried and cried, the only animal daring to make a sound in this dead, dead forest.


	3. Track & Trace

Sam and Dean tried to comfort you on the way back to the hotel, which only made you feel worse. Only made you feel more guilty for running away, for Rowena following after you because she was an idiot who was too in love with you to realize it was a bad idea.

"She could've dropped the phone," Dean suggested, though he didn't believe it himself. "Could've cut herself on the screen."

"I'm begging you to stop," you told him, desperate for silence, for respite. As if it wasn't enough that your girlfriend — whom you'd parted with on bad terms — had gone missing. The last thing you needed was listening to Dean's purposely dumb theories.

The three of you had agreed to return to the hotel room and have you do a tracking spell. A horrible idea, really; tracking was Rowena's thing. You sucked at it. As good as you were at magic, thanks to her excellent teaching skills and immense amounts of patience, tracking was one of the few things you struggled with. Latching on to missing objects and people was difficult.

It was easier when it came to supernatural beings. They usually carried an aura, a presence that made it easy to follow to its source, a sort of string invisible to the naked eye but a perfect guide to a witch. Whenever you practiced on Rowena, it was almost a piece of cake.

But this was different. This was for real. She'd never been so far away from you. It would be difficult, much more so, to look for her in an unknown town than it was in your own neighborhood.

"You can do it, darling."

Rowena said it every time you worried about learning a new spell. Every time you feared failure. She was there, and she would guide you through every step, every single moment,. There was nothing to be afraid of.

"That's my girl!"

She was proud of you so many times. Even when you struggled. Even when you didn't do well, didn't quite meet her standards. She never made you feel inept, inadequate. You were her girl, and she was proud of your every attempt. There was no perfection in witchcraft. Only progress. And, she'd said, you were progressing more than well.

You certainly hoped so for now she needed you the most and there was no time for failure. No time for insecurity.

The brothers cleared a small space to you in the room and watched as you sorted the candles into an imperfect circle around you. Once it was done, you lowered to your knees, and, magic bursting in your veins like lava, hot and deadly, started to chant.

The town was bare of magic. Empty. Startlingly lonely. Had it always been that way, or was everyone magic, everyone non-human, killed? Maybe the victims whose deaths you'd been investigating were the last ones. Final remnants of magic, forever quieted down by a monster — a monster who didn't have claws, whose only fuel, only power, was hatred for everything different than him.

Different than _it_ for you refused to humanize the beast who'd done all this. The beast who'd had your girlfriend and was surely doing unspeakable things to her, things you didn't dare imagine but couldn't keep your mind from wandering to.

 _Focus,_ you told yourself. Your first job was to find her. Everything else would be taken care of in due time.

Rowena was strong. Resilient. A survivor. She'd survived a brutal death at the hands of the Devil himself. A pathetic hunter was nothing in comparison. He could shatter her, break her, but he couldn't kill her. Not permanently. For the first time since you'd found out about their fate, you were grateful to know Sam would be the one to permanently kill her.

You gripped Rowena's necklace — the gold one with a circle pendant — tight as you yelled the words of magic, exactly the way she'd taught you. She used to wear it all the time, had owned it for decades, possibly centuries; it was as good of an anchor as any. Nothing stood out amidst the vast emptiness. No signal. No pull. You spat the words again, and again. Focused your mind solely on Rowena, on her power that greatly surpassed yours.

You could find it.

You could do it.

"That's my girl," you imagined her saying. The words you needed to hear. The encouragement you craved.

No beacon. No light. A vast field, a graveyard lone of magic.

And then…

"Got her!" you yelled, fingers instantly clenching around the necklace. The fragile metal burying into your skin.

"Where is she?" Sam asked, relieved. You weren't just missing a girlfriend; he was missing a friend, a good one. No matter your opinion on him and his brother, you couldn't deny they were close. That they meant something to each other — something you could never come to comprehend.

"She's…" The streak of power was faint. Blinking. But, as you closed in on it, let your own power latch on, you could see it freely. Could feel it in your veins as if it were a part of you, a limb you'd just gained. "I can take us there."

"Let's go!" Dean said.

The room was instantly emptied. Belongings shoved in the trunk of the Impala. You were glad to be away from the stinky room, to never have to go back. The three of you quickly checked out, and were on your way.

"We still don't know what we're dealing with, so be careful," Dean said, as if you were a child. As if you'd never faced danger.

"It's a witch-killing maniac," you said, annoyed.

"We don't know that."

"Oh, don't give me that shit! You can't honestly believe this is some witch offing random people. This one's on your kind."

It sounded a lot like an accusation, and it was supposed to.

Sam, ever the peacemaker, spoke up. "We're just saying, we need to be careful."

No, you thought. You needed to get there as fast as possible, kill the son of a bitch, and rescue your girl. Bursting in, guns and magic blazing, was more than okay with you, so long as it got the bastard away from Rowena. The three of you could handle him. Rowena, captured, probably bound in iron, couldn't.

The spell led you to a secluded cabin at the very edge of town. Nothing but trees and weeds for miles. A perfect little torture chamber for a deranged psycho.

Dean parked the car right before the property line, behind a thick bundle of trees. The three of you tiptoed to the cabin, slow, careful, hiding behind trees and various pieces of junk the bastard has accumulated in his yard. You were, once again, offered a gun, and, just like last time, had declined it. You had your magic on standby, ready to fire at your command. Ready to destroy, to ravage, the avenge.

Rowena would have been proud.

She _would_ be proud.

Noise from inside the cabin made your ears perk up. It was faint, but as you got closer, you could make out familiar screams and yelling, words unknown but their meaning clear — anger. Worry clenched at your heart, dug its pointy talons deep into it. Your eyes watered; you instantly wiped at them and took a deep breath to steady yourself. There would be time for crying later. Right now, you had a girlfriend to rescue.

You looked at Dean, then shifted your glance to the door. _Do it,_ your expression said, clear as day.

He shook his head.

You glared and mouthed, hissed, "Do it!"

He looked unsure.

You turned to Sam, who seemed to share his brother's sentiment.

"No!" The word rang loud, startling you. The voice you knew by heart, now broken, desperate. So different to the power it oozed with earlier during your argument. "Stop!"

A muffled response, then a scream.

A rebellious tear spilled down your face. The monster was hurting Rowena. It was one thing to imagine it. To hear it, to hear her cries of pain…

"Do it or I will," you said in a low voice, fixing Dean with your deadliest stare. One you'd stolen from Rowena, that left no room for argument.

Dean pondered on it for a moment, then, getting a nod from Sam, crept forward and, with all the strength he carried, kicked at the door. It fell off its hinges under the force of the strike, tumbled down like a useless sack.

"Get away from her!" he yelled, raising his gun.

Sam went in after him, and, his own weapon up, said, "Stay back!"

You followed right after.

The sight that greeted your eyes made you wish you hadn't.

It was right then and there that you decided the son of a bitch would die, and it would be far from pretty.


	4. A Witch Scorned

Rowena's hands were bound by heavy chains that hung from the ceiling. Her blouse and dress pants were torn, ripped in places, fabric and thread hanging loose.

Injuries marred every exposed piece of her flesh. A cut stretched across her cheek, another one across her chest. Blood drenched her blouse, staining the white fabric the color of rust. Her face was red and purple with bruises. Eyes framed by dark crescents. Lower lip swollen, blood dripping down its split corner.

She was exhausted. Week. The chains were the only thing keeping her on her shaky feet.

 _It's okay, baby,_ you thought, as if she could hear you, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill free. _It's gonna be okay._ You were here now, and you weren't going to let anything happen to her.

The worst had passed.

Whatever happened from here on, she wouldn't be hurt. You'd walked away from her once; you weren't going to make the same mistake again.

The man beside Rowena, the monster, glared at you, Sam, and Dean with hatred more intense than anything you'd ever seen before. He was older, around Bobby's age, but appeared fit, strong. His right hand cradled a knife, the left one balled into a tight, angry fist.

Useless for you were angrier. And hell hath no fury like a witch on a vengeance mission.

"Hunters," the man said appreciatively, his intense expression softening into one of friendship. "It was only a matter of time before you tracked me down."

Sam and Dean, yeah. But you… "Guess again," you spat, eyes flashing purple. An open threat. A promise that he wasn't going to get away with what he'd done. That you didn't forgive — not when it came to the woman you loved.

He stiffened at your display of power, but quickly regained his composure. Was that disgust on his face? Contempt? "And a witch." He looked at Sam and Dean like a grandfather disappointed in his grandchildren's life choices. "Is that what hunters today are doing? Partnering up with witches?"

"Sometimes we sleep with them," Dean said cheekily, prompting everyone in the cabin (even Rowena, in her weakened state) to glare at him.

"Well," the man mused, "one must have their fun, I suppose. We're all human, after all."

You begged to differ that he belonged in that category.

"That witch is with us," Sam said, gesturing to Rowena. "So let her go."

"Is that so?"

"She's an ally."

The man spat, disgusted. "So you're the friends she threatened me with." Rowena smirked, a wordless I-told-you-so. "Here I was, expecting a Coven."

"Oh, there is a Coven," you said.

Rowena coughed. Gathering the last remnants of her strength, she uttered, "It takes three for a Coven, love."

You grit your teeth. _Typical._ She'd been tortured for hours, had god knows what done to her, and that was the first thing she decided to say to you?

You cleared your throat. "There's a _dyad."_

"Scary," the man deadpanned.

"You should be scared."

He really should. You didn't look like much — couldn't do much — but you were a capable witch. You could hurt him. You could _kill_ him, and you wouldn't have to lift a finger. The perks of having a pro as your mentor.

"You witches and your empty threats. And here I thought you were formidable."

You were, when people didn't sneak up on you from behind. Like he surely must have done to Rowena and those witches he'd murdered.

"At least we're not cowards," you retorted because what did it matter, anyway? He was surrounded. A dead man walking.

"You mean, like when you killed my son?" His eyes bore into yours, pierced right through to your soul. "When you spewed out that Latin shit and ordered my wife to cut her own throat? When you ripped my grandson's heart out and used it as an ingredient for a potion?"

The words sent chills down your spine. A horrid story it was. Utterly tragic.

But you hadn't done anything like that; you never had, and never would. And neither had Rowena.

"That wasn't us."

"It was _a_ witch."

"Still not us."

You'd suffered at the hands of humans. Had shed numerous tears. Not once had you wanted to exterminate the entire species.

The man was sick. Deranged. A rabid animal too far gone, that needed to be put down.

"Your kind is evil."

You had to scoff. "Yours is worse."

He ignored your remark. Held his knife up, the blood-coated blade glinting under the fluorescent light. "You are abominations of nature."

"Put down the knife!" Sam barked.

The man just chuckled.

"Put it down!" Dean yelled.

"Here I thought my fellow humans would agree." The hunter's shoulders sagged. Face fell. "Guess not."

"Stay away from her or—"

"Or what?!" he snarled, red in the face. "You can't do anything to me! You've already taken everything!"

He pulled at Rowena's hair, eliciting a yelp from her dry lips. Bared her neck for you to see. Brushed his blade against the soft, bruised flesh.

They said there was nothing more dangerous than a man with nothing to lose.

They were wrong.

"Impetus bestiarum!" you screamed, stopping him in his tracks. He turned to you, red-rimmed eyes dripping blood. Veins popping over his cheeks. "Cut your own throat—" _and say hello to your wife,_ you thought bitterly "—you son of a bitch!"

He stared at you as if in contemplation, though you knew it was a done deal. There was nothing for him to think about. Nothing for him to consider. He was under your command; your servant, your slave. Your fucing belonging. And he was going to do what you told him to.

And he did.

The knife glided across his skin, the sharp blade digging in, burrowing itself deep. Blood gushed, thick and fast as a downpour. The man gurgled. Struggled for breath. The knife slipped from his fingers, landing with a clank that echoed in the silence of the cabin.

He made a step towards you; a single, desperate step before collapsing at Rowena's feet. Motionless. Dead.

A breath you'd been holding finally seeped out. Relief flooded your veins, tension dissipating from your shoulders.

It was over.

The monster had been defeated.

Your girl was safe.

"Remind me not to piss you off," Dean commented.

You responded with a small, proud chuckle.

Rowena's eyes, wounded, broken, met yours. She smiled, flinching as the gesture pulled at her split lip. "That's my girl."

Your heart bloomed with joy. You were at her side in an instant, fingers brushing against hers. A silent promise of safety, of protection. You were here, her tormentor was dead, and she was okay. She was going to be okay.

"I was wrong earlier," you said, pressing your forehead to hers, gently as to not agitate her wounds. Tears you'd been holding back spilled down your face. "You're not a shitty girlfriend. You're the best. You'll always be the best."

No matter how difficult she was. No matter how hard you fought, how loudly you screamed in each other's face. She was one of a kind. Special. Perfect. You wouldn't trade her for the world.

"As will you," Rowena said softly. "I knew you would come for me."

"I don't like people taking what's mine."

"My wee savage."

"I learned from the best."

She pulled at the chains weakly. "Would you be so kind as to undo these? I could use a wee rest."

"Of course."

You would take her home. Take care of her. Love her in actions as well as words.

And everything would be right in the world again.


	5. The Cure

Rowena was okay.

Mentally, that was. Physically, she was wounded, badly so; body littered with injuries, clothes drenched in dried blood.

But she was okay. Despite everything she'd been through, she still had it in her to tease and smile all throughout the drive home. Sam and Dean were kind enough to offer it, and there was no way either of you could refuse. Traveling back by bus or taxi would lead to questions you couldn't answer and comments you didn't have the energy to retort to.

So the Winchesters it was.

Sam helped you walk Rowena inside while Dean carried your bags, leaving them in the living room as you'd instructed him to. They offered further help, anything you needed, but Rowena was adamant that you were fine. You were big girls, and this wasn't the first time one of you had gotten hurt. You would be fine.

It wasn't a lie. You _would_ be fine. But, as you walked Sam and Dean out and the three of you said your goodbyes, your mind kept flashing back to that horrid day in May three years ago. The day that had started out alright. That, just like today, featured a fight and you running off.

The day you'd returned, having cooled off enough, to a messed up hotel room. Furniture upturned. Blood sprayed everywhere. Rowena's charred body lying amidst the destruction.

For a moment, you could feel the putrid smell of burning flesh, and you were back there, and your heart was racing just as helplessly, just as fearfully as it had back then.

Rowena hadn't been hurt badly since then. Her injuries now couldn't compare to what Lucifer had put her through, but you hadn't had to take care of her to this extent, hadn't had to nurse her back to health, since that day.

She waited for you in the living room as you'd left her, seemingly bored out of her mind, looking through her purse absent-mindedly. She perked up as you walked in, lips grazed by a smile. Clearly happy to see you. Satisfied to have you all to herself, for as long as she wanted.

You shared the sentiment. Just like years ago, you never wanted to part from her again. Never wanted to leave her side. No matter how angry you were, how frustrated. It didn't matter anymore; nothing mattered except that she was here, she was safe, and she was yours. And she trusted you in ways she never trusted anyone in her life.

It was a privilege you took pride in.

"Okay," you said, looking her over. "Let's take your shirt off. I need to know what I'm dealing with."

Rowena raised a teasing eyebrow. "My, my. Thirsty, are we? I missed you, too, love."

"Yeah, you covered in blood is such a turn on," you deadpanned.

"You know I'd never kink-shame."

Because some of the shit she was into was too much even for the likes of you.

"I'm so blessed." It was only half sarcasm; you truly were blessed. Even with all her flaws, you wouldn't give her up for the world.

You helped her remove her blouse, slowly, patiently, taking care not to cause her unnecessary pain. Rowena let out a few hisses, but for the most part she took it as a champ. She knew it was necessary for you to get a better look at her injuries, and, though her pride surely protested it, she cooperated to the best of her ability.

To think mere years ago she would have pushed you away and insisted on handling everything herself. You were glad she knew she could count on you, that she didn't fear betrayal. She trusted you, immensely, with everything she had, and you swore to never do anything to break that trust.

Her chest and arms, thankfully, looked better than her face. There were blooming bruises, especially around her wrists, and a stray cut here and there, but nothing too extreme. Nothing that couldn't be fixed with a potion and a few days rest. And some cuddles, because whenever one of you was in need of care, emotional or physical, there was no better comfort than cuddles.

"What did he do to you?" you asked, carefully tapping around one of the cuts with a wet cloth to clean it of dried blood.

Rowena stiffened. "Horrible things."

"Such as?"

You cut tell he'd cut her. But what else had he done? Had he slapped her? Punched her? Hit her with a different sort of weapon?

From the little you'd seen before Sam and Dean had doused the cabin in gasoline and set it on fire with his body inside of it, the man had accumulated quite a little torture set. Various instruments had lined the walls. Some were strewn over a small table by the wall. A couple on the floor. All caked in rusty blood.

Clearly used on his victims.

Had he had time to try some out on Rowena?

"I'd rather not." Her voice was low when she responded. Quiet. As weak as earlier in the cabin.

You looked her in the eyes. Heart shattered with sympathy at the hurt in them, with pain, with guilt. If you hadn't started the fight, none of this would have happened.

This was the second time you'd left her, pissed to high heavens, only to find her in peril.

"Of course." You squeezed her hand and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to talk about."

You took care of the rest of her injuries in silence. Rowena remained compliant, never once complaining. Other than a few hisses and moans when you dabbed at a bruise too hard, she behaved, which earned her smiles and kisses.

"Good girl," you would say each time you would be done with a particularly bad wound. And she would smile because praise was her drug and she could never get enough.

Once you were done, you looked her over one more time, just to be sure, and helped her into a nightgown — picking it out, you were going for soft, comfortable, but you couldn't help finding her appealing in the black cloth that hugged her every curve just perfectly. Not even bruises and bandages could mar her beauty.

You suggested taking her to bed, but Rowena insisted on staying where she was while you worked on the potion for her. She loved watching you work. Loved observing you flipping through a spellbook and picking out ingredients, double checking the recipe to make sure you got everything right. No words left her mouth, but the proud smile she displayed said more than enough.

It was always like that. She drew immense pleasure from watching you do magic, a sense of pride. She'd passed on the knowledge, and you were using it with the same confidence she bore. The confidence she'd gained as a young witch herself, learning the ways of magic, growing the power that bloomed within her, surpassing that of the greats who'd taught her.

Your power could never match hers, but what you had was more than enough. You had skill. You weren't perfect, but you were a damn good student. Great in your own way. Better than most, because you'd been tutored by the best. No matter how in love she was with you, she wouldn't lie about something like that.

"Here you go," you said, handing her the concoction in her favorite mug.

Rowena took it with shaky hands. She inhaled, then took a sip, a small one, exploring the taste. "Mm."

"Good?"

"Excellent." Her lips widened into a smile. "I've expected nothing less from my girl."

You couldn't help a grin, cheeks flushing. Her praise was one of your greatest weaknesses.

She finished the potion in a few gulps. You left the empty mug in the sink, to be washed later, and took her to bed. You considered a shower, but given Rowena's state, you didn't want to leave her alone for long, so you just threw your clothes off and pulled on your nightwear; a shower could wait until morning.

She instantly curled against you as you laid down. Your standard position, particularly when she needed comfort. You wrapped an arm around her, careful not to hurt her. She was a fragile little thing. No matter how tough she played, she was still a person. She still hurt and bled and suffered like everyone else.

"You're the best, too," she said after a moment of deafening silence, startling you from your thoughts.

"What?"

She swallowed. Sucked in a breath, deep and steady, as if she were preparing for a marathon. "I was wrong."

That wasn't something you heard every day.

Rowena rarely, if ever, admitted she was wrong. She didn't express regret so openly. Didn't apologize for her pride was too great to allow her to lower herself to that level.

And yet…

"You're enough." Her voice trembled. "More than enough."

Oh, right. The argument. The thing that led to all this mess.

"We were both so angry," you said. Understatement of the century.

Rowena shrugged. "You were right. I do go out of my way to help the Winchesters."

Was that guilt in her voice? Regret?

Your heart jumped. "I don't think helping people is wrong. I just… I'm worried."

"Because of Samuel."

"Yeah."

As much as you disliked him, you didn't think the hunter would hurt her on purpose. But accidents happened all the time. Being around him was dangerous.

"I trust him," Rowena said.

"And I trust you," you told her. "I just…"

"I know. Anything could happen."

"Exactly."

For once she understood. You were on the same page. No shouting. No arguments. Just a conversation, one you should have had ages ago.

She squeezed your hand. "I promise you I won't die. Not permanently, at least. Samuel and I will change our fate."

Tears stung at your eyes. "That's what you keep saying, but—"

"But nothing. We will do it. I'm in no hurry to die. And I'm pretty sure he likes me enough to want me to stick around."

"It's because he doesn't live with you," you joked.

"Oi!" she said, feigning offense. Then she grew serious again. "I won't go to them as often, but I will help from time to time."

You pondered on it for a moment, weighed the pros and cons. It wasn't ideal, but it seemed like a good compromise.

As dangerous as it was, you couldn't forbid her from doing it. The last thing you wanted was to be that kind of girlfriend. You just wanted her to be safe.

"I _need_ to do some good."

"You don't owe anyone anything."

She'd done plenty of bad in her life, but she didn't have to make up for it for the rest of her days. She didn't have to put herself in danger.

"I know," Rowena said. "But I _want_ to do it."

"Okay." So long as it was her wish. So long as she didn't feel pressured. "But after you're all healed up, alright? I don't want you doing anything in this condition."

"I like it when you’re in charge," she teased.

"Shut up," you said, flustered.

"It's sexy."

"You're horrible."

"You love me."

"I do." Your biggest weakness. "Sometimes I wish I didn't."

"I find that hard to believe," Rowena said.

Because it was a lie. Loving her was the best thing you'd ever done.

"As if you don't love me," you retorted.

"Never said I don't."

You never tired of hearing it.

Pressing a soft kiss to her scalp, you closed your eyes and sank into peaceful sleep, the woman you loved safe in your arms. Cherished and cared for.

As lucky, you hoped, as you were to be by her side.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by miss-moon-guardian.


End file.
